


Moving in Tandem

by AHM1121



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, Dirty Talking Bucky Barnes, Fluff, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, So much mutual pining you'll want to smash their heads together I promise, Top Bucky Barnes, lots of pining, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHM1121/pseuds/AHM1121
Summary: “Dude. We have got to go. These bastards are climbing like spider monkeys and I’m all out of bananas.”“Wow, that’s lame even for you, Barton,” Tony replies over the coms.“Shut up, Stark. We’re about to get our asses handed to us if we don’t move. C’mon, Bucky. Bucky!”Bucky blinks, realizing his finger isn't even close to the trigger and the aliens they're supposed to be killing are rapidly ascending the walls and leaping onto their little perch.****What happens when Bucky’s too distracted by Clint to complete a mission?hint: just another version of these two idiots in love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 30
Kudos: 219





	Moving in Tandem

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a giant thank you to [MissyRivers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyRivers/pseuds/MissyRivers) for getting me through yet another fic <3

There’s a vein running over Clint’s arm, well, his bicep to be exact, and Bucky wants to lick it.

The blue-green ridge of blood begins near his shoulder before disappearing to his heart, but it rides all the way down the bulge of his bicep before becoming prominent again across his forearm to stand out along the top of his hand (or hell, it might be a completely different one, Bucky’s no doctor, never claimed to be) making those dexterous fingers work their way around the handle of his bow. It drives him insane. More insane than he already is, that is. 

Because when they’re training, he finds himself forgetting about the simulation in Stark’s tower. As they perch together on the fake rooftop, he stares down his scope at the fake battle, and fires his fake bullets, but occasionally he forgets there’s a battle, because kneeling next to him on one knee and firing empty arrows one after the other, is Clint. 

Clint Barton with a bandaid across his nose and sporting two black eyes from catching a door to the face thanks to a random SHEILD intern, who cried when she saw who the owner of the “ow, fuck” was. Even then, Bucky was entranced in the middle of the hallway, his freshly-warmed cinnamon roll (stolen from Stark’s personal supply) halfway to his lips, as he watched the guy panic then wrap the girl in a hug while blood poured from his nose onto the top of the poor girl’s head, because Clint Barton is 6’4” and the girl couldn’t be more than 5’5”. And it looked ridiculous. He should have been laughing. Not starring. Should have been shooting the guy a quip or a snarky comment, but he froze. 

Because the sleeves of Clint’s raggedy shirt had ridden up in the process of enveloping the girl and a tirade of “aw, tears, no no no, don’t cry” and there were the veins. The prominent ridges that drove Bucky crazy. 

Where was he?

Oh right, the rooftop... and ogling. 

Clint’s laughing at something being said in the com’s, and Bucky’s dying because... veins. And there is a lot of commotion down below. He’s getting most of his shots because he is the best damn sniper, had been for the last century, but he misses one and there’s a comment about slacking in Russian from Romanov and Stark is saying how unfair it is that he can’t seem to master that language so if they could use one of the other five that he actually does know, that would be great, cool thanks. 

He blinks a few times and forces his eyes away from the way Clint’s arm moves, and how his tricep creates perfectly curved hills in its reach to his quiver. There’s an onslaught of new fake aliens he’s supposed to be paying attention to, because that’s his life now. 

A year into the bullshit madness of being an Avenger, training 6 days a week, or working 7, depending on what crisis the world decided to be in. Vacations? What vacations? But also, he was saving people instead of murdering them. So, all in all, it balanced out. Plus, Pepper got him out of most press gigs, and did her best to keep the spot light at bay. 

So he - they - trained. Whatever the simulation technology could throw at them within the four story practice area, they had to figure out how to tackle. Then they reviewed it all afterwards to discuss mistakes, tactics, and different approaches. Earth’s mightiest were very busy people. 

He didn’t mind it, but the meetings afterwards were for Steve’s hard-on, not Bucky’s. He had a tendency to sit in the back of the room and listen, making mental notes while Steve drew x’s and o’s on the giant glass conference room board like a damn football coach, and when his portion of being critiqued was complete, he left. 

Most days it got him out of his head. Sitting on a fake roof, which was really a balcony of sorts overlooking the chaos below, and using his fake gun to shoot fake things, it got him out of his head. Except for when he was in his head about Clint’s arms, that is. 

“Shit shit shit,” Clint’s voice rang over the cons, “we gotta move, man.” 

There are freckles on his shoulders. Little tan dots collecting in bunches, scattering over his biceps down to his hand. How had Bucky never noticed them before? They’d been in more situations than this where they’d been nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Fake fighting, real fighting, practicing hand-to-hand on the mats. How had he never noticed the way the little dots disappeared beneath the cut-off sleeve of his training shirt during battle? 

“Dude. We have got to go. These bastards are climbing like spider monkeys and I’m all out of bananas.”

“Wow, that’s lame even for you, Barton,” Tony replies over the coms. 

“Shut up, Stark. We’re about to get our asses handed to us if we don’t move. C’mon, Bucky. Bucky!”

Finally Bucky blinks, realizing his finger wasn’t even close to the trigger and there are CGI aliens rapidly ascending the walls and leaping onto their little perch. 

With a growl of frustration and a muttered curse at his own distraction, he pulls the M-16 back, pushing it over his shoulder, and grabs at his glock while flipping the knife from one of the holsters on his thigh. As the fake aliens creep over the side, their own guns fully loaded and already pumping out rounds, Bucky pushes back to the other side of their landing while taking in the group that had suddenly grown the ability to climb.

“You really brought a knife to a gunfight, huh?” Clint quips from beside him, notching an arrow and giving Bucky a wink as it shoots through two of the alien’s skulls, turning them into CGI dust.

Then they were moving in tandem. Stepping into one another’s dance space and giving Bucky no time to reply as their arms brushed within the madness. Left then right, they push at one another, practiced moves they’d learned within the last year of having each other’s backs when given the advantage points in mountains and skyscrapers during battle. 

Putting the sharp shooters up top was a good plan. Always a smart idea, as proven by every sniper or archer in every war in the history of ever. Definitely a smart idea, he adds into the thought as a fake alien’s fist rams into his ribs, causing him to take the knife out of one of the bastard's throats and shove it into the new offender on his way down. 

A smart idea until your sharp shooter gets distracted by a god damn freckle. 

He wants to punch Clint. Not really punch him, as he was busy laying on his back, slicing aliens’ calves and shooting them as they all but dog-piled on top of him. 

He wants to metaphorically punch him.

Had the man not had perfect biceps, and a shit eating grin that lit up a damn room when he was awake enough to share it with others, then maybe Bucky would have been able to pay attention enough to keep the fucking aliens at bay.

Before he can even think to panic about the five blueish-green bastards clawing at him, two of them were suddenly being taken away via Clint’s bow hooking over their heads to capture their throats with a jerk of his arms. Two arrows fire rapidly at their falling bodies, turning them to dust before they can meet the ground. Two more meet bullets from Bucky’s glock, sending them teetering back off the ledge, and the last is pulled from Bucky with a yank of Clint’s hand around its throat before meeting the same fate as the rest.

The lights flash once over head, and as the simulation disintegrates around them, complaints whine over the coms about it ending so early. Bucky blinks rapidly from his place on the hard floor at the sudden onslaught of bright white light; nearly blinding compared to the fake dim dust of battle. 

“Review is in 15 minutes.” Steve’s voice is disgruntled over the com and Bucky knows, he just knows, it was the time Clint spent saving his ass that ended the simulator before the hour mark, and Steve was pissed. 

Standing over him, Clint is all long legs and confused concern. He offers his hand and a crooked smile, both of which make Bucky want to groan and close his eyes and say ‘no thanks, just gonna hang out down here for a bit’, but he lets Clint pull him up to his feet, then twitches when Clint pulls the wired com out of Bucky’s ear then his disconnects his own from his left hearing aid. 

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Clint asks, folding his arms across his chest. 

Mere inches away now, the height difference between the two was even more pronounced. Bucky hates it, hates how he can’t look away from the tan skin covered in bandages. 

He forces his eyes up to Clint’s and tries his best to ignore the concern there. 

“No.” 

“Fine,” with a shrug Clint rolls his eyes, summer-blue surrounded by tawny lashes, before he starts walking to the elevator. “It's your ass that Cap’s handing to you in the post-game, not mine,” he adds, pushing the button and disrobing the bow and quiver to leave them for tomorrow’s training, which will inevitably be the same thanks to Bucky’s moments of distraction. 

Bucky stands there as the elevator opens, watching Clint waltz in with lazy strides. As he settles himself against the back wall of the 8x8 mirrored box he gives Bucky another one of those confused looks, his head cocking to the side like a puppy hearing the word ‘walk’. 

“You coming?”

What other option does he have? 

He gives another grunt of affirmation, at this point he might as well be a caveman, before beginning the process of detaching his weapons. 

Watchful eyes track his movements, and he tampers down the feeling of embarrassment. He’d assess the situation later, figure out what the hell was really going on. 

Two knife sheaths previously velcroed to his thighs find their way to the floor, a leather gun holster and it’s realistic counterpart join them. He thinks he can hear Clint’s breathing hitch, but he’s probably imagining it. The M-16 is placed on top of the rest; a little messy, but no one else came up there during training, so it really didn’t matter. 

The ride down to the main floor is quiet; Clint’s eyes are closed and his head rests against the glass. Bucky uses the time to try and memorize the scuffs on the toes of his boots, to keep from making even more of an ass out of himself. As the doors open to the conference room floor, Clint starts towards the opening and gives pause for a slightly obnoxious yawn, his arms stretching back into Bucky’s space, and Bucky’s eyes are drawn up all over again, a moth to a tricep blending into delts with a healthy dose of bicep-flame.

And while Clint holds the stretch for a few seconds, giving a heathen-esc groan, Bucky feels his inside twist. And he hates Clint. He hates the fact that he can’t help but smile like an idiot after Clint turns and gives him a friendly shove into the glass before meandering out into the hall. 

Following him, Bucky forces his eyes to go back to the safest place they could stay - Clint’s feet. It made it easier. 

See, it was simple - no staring at his back, no admiring his shoulders. No finding his belly going warm whenever Clint’s startling blue eyes lit up after telling one of his stupid-ass jokes. And definitely no thinking about the sun-kissed skin and the bandages hidden beneath the shirt that left little to the imagination.

Not that he needed his imagination. No. He’s been training with the guy for upwards of 8 months. He’d seen Clint climb nearly smooth walls up to rafters in 10 seconds flat, hang from pipes in the ceilings like it was nothing, and he’d seen his parlor tricks, thanks to his circus upbringing, on a set of parallel rings. 

The guy could hold him himself up, not even a hint of strain, as he chatted with Romanov, staying in the position of having his toes pointed down towards the ground with all those veins riding freely up his arms and across his chest (oh yeah, of course he was shirtless, did Bucky forget to mention that?), before going into a series of flips that’d make even a gold medal olympian drool. 

So he knew.

Bucky had known since the first time he’d walked onto the floor dedicated to the common-room area carrying his freshly made PB&J to find Clint sprawled across one of the couches, bare from the waist up, drooling into a couch cushion. He’d been covered in bandages and bruises, but it didn’t stop the sight of sinewy muscles braiding together as he shifted in his sleep from going unnoticed. Then he was jerking awake and blinking at Bucky.

“Wassamatter? S’there a mission?”

Bucky, without thinking, answered, “don’t you have a bed?” Because really, it was hazardous to walk in on a half-naked beaten-up guy whose feet dangled off of couches while wearing mismatched socks. 

“S’covered in laundry. This isn’t,” Clint explained, not even remotely phased by Bucky’s tone. “There a mission or not?”

“No.” 

“Good. Here.” Clint flopped back down before bending his knees to clear off a cushion.

Staring dumbly at the spot Bucky waited, standing stock still. “Huh?” 

“You can sit. I’ll take my hearing aids out if you wanna watch the tube,” Clint added, voice muffled by the cushion. 

“Oh.”

“Hurry up, or my feet’ll go all tingly.”

Well, he couldn’t let that happen, could he? So he sat, and Clint had put his legs across Bucky’s lap and pulled his bright-purple hearing aids out, popping open the batteries on the back before dropping them next to the couch. And Bucky ate his sandwich with no recognition of what show was on, as he’d mostly glanced at Clint’s sleeping form and pondered how someone could be so trusting. Which is probably how he found himself quietly slipping into whatever room Clint found to sleep in because someone should have your six when you were vulnerable, it was like a soldier / spy / assassin code of honor. 

Now? Now, Bucky felt like an ass. A complete un-honorable asshole. Clint was a good friend. Clint was the first one to give Bucky a tour of the building, showing him all the exits for tricky situations, giving him the security codes to get into rooms he probably shouldn’t be in, and telling him exactly what days Stark had two dozen of the best cinnamon rolls in the city delivered to his office and which intern to sweet talk in order to snag one. 

He’d sat beside Bucky during trainings and missions alike, chatting or sitting in silence, reading Bucky’s mood like he was an open book. He’d even gotten Bucky a cupcake (red velvet - his favorite) on his birthday, leaving it on his pillow with a note of ‘I know you said you didn’t want to celebrate. So I didn’t get balloons. - C’ 

It had taken Bucky a solid month to get Clint to show him how he’d gotten into his room. The tower offered keyless facial recognition entry only. 

“C’mon,” Bucky had begged for the third time in an hour while they were staked out during a mission, both pressed into an impossibly small space in the middle of a HYDRA sleeper cell, “it’s a matter of security.”

Clint just rolled his eyes, elbowing Bucky’s left arm with his right. 

“Like you need security with your cool robo-arm. I don’t have a robo-arm, kid, I need all the advantages I can get.”

“I’m at least 70 years older than you,” Bucky scoffed. 

“Nah. Given your HYDRA files and the summary they had of you being a popsicle off and on, I would say I got at least 3 years on you.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky had snorted. He could always rely on Clint to make light of his past, thank God. It had taken Steve a solid 3 months to stop looking at him like he was some stray sickly animal, but that was Steve’s way of doing things. Which was fine. “Plus, it’s my room. I should know how my privacy was violated.”

“Oooooh okay,” Clint mocked, “you weren’t even there, and you got a free cupcake out of it, a little gratitude would be nice, ya know, something like ‘thanks for the cupcake Clint, you’re the best Avenger Clint, you’re always so good looking Cl-“ 

“Thanks for the cupcake Clint,” Bucky said, shooting him his most innocent grin, before adding, “so… how’d you get in?”

Finally Clint sighed, “fine,” holding up his pinky finger he poked Bucky’s thigh, “but if I tell you you have to pinky swear not to tell anyone else, or booby trap it.”

“Booby trap what?” Bucky asked, interest peaked.

“Nope.” Clint crooked his pinky in front of Bucky’s face. “Pinky swear or no dice.”

“This is weird,” Bucky said, bringing up his own pinky and hooking it around Clint’s.

“Uh, and by weird you mean sacred, right?”

Bucky gave him a hapless shrug. “Sure, if two 30ish year olds pinky swearing in a HYDRA base before probably killing some people is sacred, then whatever you say.”

“That’s more like it.” Clint’s eyes lit up, “you gotta kiss it.”

“What?!” Bucky startled, eyes automatically training within the dim light on the wide smile of Clint’s lips. “Wait, kiss what?”

“Jesus Christ, you and Rogers didn’t pinky swear back in the day? How’d you even get into HYDRA?”

“Uh, mostly torture and mind control.” 

“Sucks. They could have just made you pinky swear. Ya know, keep it old school,” Clint added. “Just kiss your hand and I’ll kiss mine and then -”

“And then you’ll trust me?”

“That’s how it goes.”

“You’re so weird, Clint.” 

After doing so, Clint grinned.

“I crawl through the HVAC vents.” 

“You - are you kidding me?!”“Nope. Pretty much only Nat has me figured out and she set up this scary laser thing near hers. I’m on JARVIS’ good side so he doesn’t tattle to Tony.”

“Wait! Are you the one who keeps stealing Steve’s boxers and dying them pink?!”

Looking at his nails, Clint shrugged. “That might be some of my finer work.”

Then Bucky had laughed so hard he’d blown their cover.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe he had a bad habit of letting Clint distract him. 

So yeah. Now? Now he’d just follow him into the conference room, take his ass-chewing from Steve, then excuse himself to go for a walk or something. 

“There better be coffee,” Clint says, shooting Bucky a look over his shoulder, “I mean, if Steve is gonna go all bald eagle screechy I’ll need coffee to survive, if there isn’t coffee I’m gonna riot or cry. Maybe both,” he adds as an afterthought, pushing into the conference room’s heavy glass door with ease. 

He gives a nod to Steve then a hardy sigh of delight as he makes a beeline to the coffee pot in the back of the room. Clint watches the coffee pour into a mug, Bucky watches Clint, and a few seconds too late, Bucky realizes Steve is watching him. 

There is nothing worse, in Bucky’s opinion, then being met with Steve’s typical Steve Rogers’ look-of-disappointment. Except this time it’s mixed with confusion and curiosity. He’s glancing back and forth between the two, Bucky realizes with a wince, skeptical and calculating. That look alone tells Bucky all he needs to know. 

Steve’s reviewed the playback footage of the training, and the thought makes Bucky go hot under his collar. 

It would be great if he could just, ya know, disappear right about now. But leaving Clint and Steve alone sounded just as bad. Who knows what Steve would imply or let slip. For being great at tactics, he had the uncanny ability to miss certain social cues... which, coming from Bucky, was laughable at best. 

His brows raise in a silent question and Bucky gives a little shake of his head before looking down at the carpet. With a sigh, Steve takes a seat in one of the conference room’s many rolling chairs. It’s dwarfed under his weight and gives a little groan. 

“Clint, you can go. Tell the others they don’t need to come,” Steve comments, giving Clint a closed-lip smile.

“Aw, now, Cap, don’t be that way.” Clint’s moving to stand behind Bucky, and all the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck rise on end when the hand not holding the steaming mug slides over the back of Bucky’s left arm, trailing over the plates, in what is probably just a friendly gesture, but again, Bucky kinda sucks at social cues too. “It was just an off day. We’ve all had ‘em.”

The neuro-sensors in his brain are screaming at him to melt back into the warmth, like they always do when he gets one of Clint Barton’s friendly touches. 

He was a touchy guy. Always draping himself over people, which was comical when he did so with Romanov, as she was a whole foot shorter than the guy. When he laughed he would grab someone’s arm. If he hadn’t seen you for a while he’d run up and jump into your arms as soon as you stepped foot off the quinjet, burying his face into your neck with a wild laugh. His head was always in someone’s lap, demanding his hair be pet so he could fall asleep faster. It’s just who he was. 

And who was Bucky? Well, Bucky was the guy on the other side of the room who was supposed to be playing some insulting card game but instead was wishing he was a guy that Clint would choose. Knowing the gesture wasn’t anything more than friendship, Bucky was still a sucker for it. 

Bucky is a sucker for Clint Barton. If he was going to write a memoir, that’d be the title. 

“Clint.” There’s a warning growl in Steve’s voice and Bucky is instantly taken back to 1936 and that back alley in Brooklyn. Steve trying to save some broad from another man’s unwanted hands, then getting the snot kicked out of him for his efforts.

Behind him, Clint gives a petulant sigh. “Fine.” Suddenly there’s a large warm palm resting on the back of Bucky’s neck making his knees turn into jello and Clint’s circling around to stand between them. His eyes have a hint of seriousness in them as he gives Bucky’s neck a squeeze. “Just think of a bald eagle flying over a mountain in Canada, that’s how I get through it.” He says with a nod towards Steve and a wink. “And if that doesn’t work, I have beer.”

“It’s 11 o’clock in the morning, Clint,” Steve chastises from behind him. 

Rolling his eyes and scrunching his nose, then wincing thanks to his previous encounter with a door, Clint grins, “fine. We’ll go to brunch. Never too early for bottomless mimosas and endless french toast. Good luck,” he ends, releasing Bucky and waltzing from the room. 

Bucky makes the mistake of watching him leave. 

“Well, that explains a lot.” There’s a heavy bout of amusement in Steve’s voice as he leans back in his chair. 

“Shut it.” Blowing out a breath, Bucky sinks into the chair across from Steve, rubbing his left hand through his hair. Eventually he’d get used to wearing it short. 

Eventually he’d get used to a lot of things. 

“How long?”

“Didn’t I say to shut it, Rogers?”

“Buck.” Now it’s Steve’s turn to rub at his own hair; the long blonde hair and bearded look suits him, but beneath it all Bucky can still see that little guy from Brooklyn who couldn’t even grow a proper mustache. He knows what’s coming next. “It can’t get in the way of a mission.”

“It won’t,” Bucky counters. 

“It did.” 

“It was a simulation, Steve.” 

“One day it might not be.”

There’s a moment of silence that passes between them and Bucky frowns down at his hands. “Do you really think I’m that careless?”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “no - of course not, I just don’t want you to be -”

“Tomorrow, put me on the ground,” he interjects before Steve can finish. 

“Absolutely not, you can stay with -”

“Steve.” This time he meets Steve’s eyes, and what feels like a million different shared moments passes between them. “Please?”

There’s a beat of silence, a beat where all Bucky can do is beg with his eyes to not have to say anything else. 

“Fine,” Steve swallows, “but if he asks, I’m not telling him why.”

“You don’t even know -”

“Buck,” Steve cuts him off with a small snort of laughter, “don’t try bullshitting a bullshitter.”

There’s a moment of oppressive silence between the two, and then Bucky is leaning forward in his chair to rest his forehead against the cold glass surface of the table. 

“It’s that bad, huh?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah.”

****

Here’s the thing about Clint Barton: he was an absolute idiot. Well, is. He is an absolute idiot. He isn’t dead. Perfectly alive. So Clint Barton _is_ an idiot. An idiot who is sitting on his couch, feet tapping out an unknown rhythm on his hardwood floor, waiting for a text or a message from JARVIS or a smoke signal or something, _anything_ , from this one guy. 

You see, here’s another thing about Clint Barton:

He was, well _is_ , a sucker for Bucky Barnes. A total sucker. And it had started the moment the guy had walked into the building, all sullen and thick-thighed. 

Clint has a thing for sullen, as sometimes he finds himself in a sullen place, which typically leads him to napping in random environments throughout the Tower. And by random, he means _random_. He once fell asleep on the green felt of the pool table up on the 22nd floor, because the idea of sleeping alone in his room made him even more morose, so he tended to nap in common areas on the off chance that someone would be there. 

But the thing about Bucky getting his brain mostly back in order, then becoming a part of the team, was that Clint wasn’t napping by himself much nowadays. 

No no no, it wasn’t like _that_. 

Although, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, now would it? 

It was simply that Bucky had a knack for just-so-happening upon the room where Clint had sprawled himself. And then whenever Clint woke up, Bucky was there. Mostly eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and minding his own business until Clint’s - well, he had to guess Bucky knew when his breathing changed or something, with his super hearing or whatever. But, before Clint could even fully process that Bucky just so happened to be on the 22nd floor eating a pb&j, or on the 15th floor doing laps in the pool while Clint fetal-positioned through a power-nap on a lounge chair, he’d be sending Clint a little smile, not smug or anything, just the smallest of ‘oh, hey there’ smiles, before shoving half a sandwich in his mouth or pushing himself out of the pool to wrap a towel around his waist (much to Clint’s dismay) and making his exit. 

And don’t get him started on the guy’s thighs. He could write sonnets about ‘em. Really, it was unfair the way he walked around with those ranger panties (seriously, google it) threatening to split at the seams around the things. And God Bless America when him and Steve worked out together (every Tuesday and Thursday, not that Clint had gotten intel from JARVIS or anything) because Bucky had a competitive streak nearly as bad as Steve’s, and when it came to watching the man perform a 900lb front squat in those tiny shorts with no shirt, making noises that made Clint bite his lip and pray for mercy, well... it made Clint Barton an absolute idiot. 

It didn’t stop there. Bucky wasn’t all thighs and sadness. He was actually probably healthier than all the other Avengers put together, as he was the only one who made it to most of his therapy dates, and spoke freely about them. He was admirable. Someone who did the right thing, even when no-one was looking. 

How many times had the team finished a movie night and left the room, leaving their dirty dishes in the sink and Clint on the couch where he’d inevitably fallen asleep? 

And how many times had Clint jolted awake at the sudden severe lack of human contact, only to find Bucky standing at the sink doing the dishes instead of leaving it for the cleaning service Stark hired? 

“You know there are people that Tony pays really well to come clean up after us dysfunctional adults, right?” Clint had asked one night, rubbing at his eyes and watching Bucky soap up a pan previously covered in nachos. He remembered how distinctly calm Bucky had seemed; hands covered in soap with the fragrant smell of citrus wafting around the room. 

“I know.” Giving a small shrug, Bucky sent him one of his smiles that said ‘this is the easiest thing I’ve done all day.’ 

Clint wondered if at some point Bucky had scratched at some itch on the back of his neck, or if he was just trying to get used to not having hair there anymore due to his fresh cut, as there was a little line of soap suds sitting above the collar of his shirt. 

He missed Bucky’s hair, for purely selfish reasons. He’d never gotten up the courage to ask to play with it while it was long, and Bucky’d only kept it long for a few months while on the team before cutting it into the neat little pompadour he had now. Everyone knew Clint liked touch, but Clint had no idea how Bucky would react, so he’d kept his fingers from wandering and then mourned the loss of the locks. 

Before Clint could walk out leaving Bucky to the dishes, he was stopped when Bucky had replied. 

“It’s just...” Clint turned to see him smiling at a damn muffin tin, “I didn’t wash many dishes with HYDRA. I mean I don’t think I did, because that wasn’t my purpose, and now it reminds me of living with Steve, ya know?” He grinned. “Back when we were both too thin and too hungry, and it - it just doesn’t seem right to leave it for someone else.”

Without thinking, because sometimes he just didn’t think, Clint found himself pushing forward to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist. He felt the man still at the sudden contact, then press back in the touch just the smallest bit. 

Maybe he was getting used to Clint after all. 

With his own heart hammering in his chest, Clint had said, “you’re a really good man, Bucky Barnes, and we’re lucky to have you.”

With a small gruff laugh, and a distinct blush on his cheeks, Bucky had snorted back, “and you’re an absolute sap, Clint Barton. But we’re lucky to have you, too.”

When Clint released him, he took the time to playfully swat at the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Ow, what was that for?” 

“For calling me a sap.” Clint grinned. “I’ll have you know there is nothing sappy about me, I’m a hardened criminal,” he added before winking, “also you had soap on your neck.”

“You’re the farthest thing from a criminal, Clint.”

“You don’t know my past,” Clint countered. 

“I don’t need to,” Bucky said, turning back to the task at hand. 

Maybe that was when he fell for him, like an idiot. 

An idiot who dropped off cupcakes via air vents and who liked the way Bucky always had spare time for him. Entertaining his jokes and catching his eye during one of Steve’s long winded speeches. The friendship between them had kinda just... happened. Somewhere between giving him the first tour of his new home/workplace, to being perched on top of buildings, both real or simulated, the two had bonded. It hadn’t been that way for Clint with his other teammates. 

Sure, nowadays Cap was always ready for Clint’s demand of getting a piggyback ride through the halls whenever Clint won a bet against him, and Bruce would always bake a carrot cake for Clint’s half-birthday. And Tony? Well Tony mostly let Clint have free rein of the place as long as he didn’t break anything (the espresso machine on the 17th floor was currently hidden under Clint’s bed because he really didn’t want to lose that privilege). 

But Bucky... was just Bucky. He seemed to never be annoyed with Clint, and he was always just there. A calm place in the middle of Clint’s storm. 

And eventually Clint was able to touch him, and it set Clint’s world on fire. It had taken Bruce upwards of a year to get used to random Clint hugs, and yet the first time he’d hugged Bucky (he hadn’t thought about how it was their first hug at the time, it was just that he’d really missed him), there was only a small staggering of bodies (not surprising, really, as the dude was easily 4 inches shorter than him) before he’d felt that left arm encircle his waist quickly followed by the right. Then he’d even given Clint a little squeeze of assurance. 

It’d made Clint blush, which was a weird first as Clint wasn’t a blusher. So then he had to hide his face in all that hair that used to lay over Bucky’s shoulders because Nat’s eyes had gone all wide and knowing (never a good sign), and his hair had smelled like lilacs, and Clint knew that because those have always been his favorite flowers (and yes, men have favorite flowers, thank you very much). 

And now when Bucky is gone for too long on a mission and no matter who on the team he just so happens to be with, when the quinjet lands, Clint finds himself in Bucky’s arms. It’s weird. Probably not normal. Probably a bad idea from the get-go. But he missed the guy. 

All of this to say, Clint is waiting. Kinda more metaphorically than literally-ish. Kinda like waiting for a tripwire to detonate. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for... something that Clint really can’t put his finger on because he was too stubborn to hope for anything more than the friendship they had. 

He’d said as much to Nat and she’d simply risen one of her perfect brows and replied, “you’re waiting for Barnes?”

“Yeah.” Clint had nodded. 

Exactly. She got it. Thank fuck. 

“To do what exactly?”

Dammit. 

“I, uh...” Clint had scratched at his scalp while looking up at the ceiling, “I don’t really know.” 

“So, you’re waiting for Barnes to do something, but you don’t know what you’re waiting for him to do?” she’d asked. 

“Er... well... yeah? Kinda? I guess.”

“Okay...”

“You know what? Forget it.” Clint had sighed before leaving the room.

So now he’s waiting on his couch, kinda hoping Bucky would text him after Steve finished going all “we can’t risk _______ during missions by doing dumb shit” on the guy. 

Well, that was the speech Clint had been on the receiving end of more than once, so he knew a thing or two about how to handle it. 

It’d been an hour, surely he was done by now. 

Pulling out his phone, Clint sent a quick text. 

***

Bucky’s ten blocks down from the Tower when he gets the text. His stomach is a mess of nerves and he hates the idea of letting Clint down, because he knows how tomorrow is gonna go. 

Clint Barton: did he make you sing the national anthem while doing push ups or does he only do that to me? 

Clint Barton: regardless, mimosas? I’m not above getting vitamins through my booze.

Dread pushes through him.

He knows he’s going to royally fuck everything up for the good of the team, and all because he’s what, horny? 

No. It was more than that. He knows it. Steve probably knows it, too. The only one who doesn’t even have a clue is Clint. And Bucky hates himself for that too. 

He taps out a quick reply then turns the phone off and shoves it back in his pocket. 

***

He isn’t awake. 

Clearly his body is moving on it’s own accord, with a deep subconscious understanding that in order to function in the early dawn of day, after wanting to sleep but not being able to sleep, that he must first put on pants {check}, second put on hearing aids {check & check}, then find coffee {no check}. 

His first go-to is his own coffee storage, but it proves to be completely and disappointingly empty. Which makes him sad when he’s finally able to peel one eye open to look into the container as he makes pointless scoops into a coffee-less void with his dedicated coffee spoon. 

His movement is restrained to little shuffles as he makes his way out of his apartment, remembering to grab a blanket on his way out the door, because while he did put on a pair of jeans he found on the floor, there wasn’t a shirt nearby. 

Boarding the elevator he gives a thankful sigh as JARVIS automatically dims the fluorescents above. This wasn’t their first rodeo. 

“Find me some coffee Jeeves, anywhere that’s close,” he murmurs as he stumbles to lean his forehead against the back wall. 

The movement of the elevator doesn’t last long, but Clint isn’t really paying attention to its path. Maybe if he stands really still he can slip in and out of sleep. That’s all his body is made for when his mood takes this hard of a hit. 

He hates it. He wants to be able to just fall asleep. Not doze in and out only to hate waking up to where everything around classified as “reality” just felt so fuzzy. 

He knows a short distance from his floor is one of his team-mates, and all of them drink coffee. Hopefully, if it’s Bruce, he doesn’t Hulk-out at being woken up at this God-awful hour, or give Clint green tea out of spite. 

When the elevator’s doors open he shuffles out, heads blindly to whoever’s door is down the hall, and leans his forehead against it as he knocks. 

It doesn’t take long. 

The door opens, and Clint doesn’t really care who is on the other side, because all he wants is coffee or sleep or both. So instead of saying anything, he just lets gravity take him now that the door was no longer holding him up, and he’s falling into whomever it may be. 

***

It’s 5 a.m. and a partially clothed Clint is stumbling into his arms.

While Bucky has already been up for an hour, even he knew it was rare for Clint to exist before 10, which explained the partially-zipped jeans left open at the top and the purple and black flannel blanket draped over his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says carefully. Caught off guard, his arms automatically come up as Clint leans his full body-weight against him, and he can feel the warmth of a bed still lingering on Clint’s skin, “what’s wrong?”

“Mmm, out of coffee,” Clint mumbles against Bucky’s neck and Bucky has to actively restrain the shiver that threatens to run up his spine. 

“Why are you up so early?”

When all Clint does is shrug, Bucky sighs. 

“Okay, go lay on the couch,” he says, patting Clint’s lower back, all the while resisting the urge to rub soothing circles over it, “and I’ll make you some.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t move. Just presses his forehead into Bucky’s neck like he’s trying to burrow in for warmth.

Bucky gives into an ironic little laugh, because this was very Clint. And the irony came from the fact that Clint was friendly, and Bucky was just that; a friend. 

“Here, let’s go,” he says, shuffling back in an awkward little dance as Clint is a pile of warm deadweight who refuses to cooperate. “Don’t make me carry you bridal-style, Barton,” Bucky growls. 

“Hate walking,” Clint grumbles, moving his feet the bare minimum to get to the destination. “Walking bad. Sleep good.”

“I know.” Letting the edge of the couch cushions tell him they’d finally made it, Bucky eases them both down. Which was his first mistake. Much like a baby koala, Clint is instantly taking advantage of the position, tucking his legs up to become a sleepy ball of warmth in Bucky’s lap. 

“Kinda hard to make coffee from here, Clint,” Bucky says. 

“Don’t want coffee anymore.” 

“Oh.” And that’s when Bucky makes his second mistake. Because today is training day, and in five hours they have to be downstairs; in five hours they have to do their first separate team mission in almost a year, and it weighs on him like a bag of sand as he sits and holds Clint while he falls back asleep. 

He should move. Because a friend would move. A friend who has the ability to pick up a small car would carefully move the person in their lap to the free space on the couch besides them then get up and make coffee and proceed to stay far away. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead he sits and lets Clint’s damp even breaths warm the side of his neck, and he finds his hand has a mind of its own as it begins to rub soothing circles under the blanket, mapping out the scars and muscled planes of Clint’s back, memorizing each and every one. 

***

Clint wakes to his name being said on repeat and the feeling of something cool touching his spine. And then all at once the night before rams back into his brain. 

Depression-sleep was the hardest sleep. It made him not actually able to fall asleep, which led to delirium, which today led to him seeking out coffee and ending up in Bucky’s apartment. Not just in Bucky’s apartment, but curled in a ball on Bucky’s lap with Bucky’s arms carefully holding him close. He didn’t know whether to thank JARVIS for understanding or kill JARVIS for not reading the damn room when it came to Bucky. 

“We have training in thirty minutes.” Clint can feel Bucky’s jaw move as it rests on his head. “Thought you might want to actually get some coffee in before we start.”

In all actuality, he doesn’t want to move. He wants to go back into his dreamless sleep where panic and hurt don’t follow him. Even given the awkward position, he doesn’t remember the last time he slept for 4 hours without waking up every 20 minutes. 

“Can’t I just stay here and skip the training?” he asks, voice rough and holding back a yawn. His nose is resting on Bucky’s neck and he can feel Bucky’s pulse, strong and steady, beating against it. 

And he wonders, as Bucky’s silent little laugh presses them closer, if Bucky notices that he hasn’t let go of him yet. 

“Honestly, I don’t think I can handle another round of Steve’s disappointed face.”

“Mmm, that is the hazard of the job, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Shitty that they didn’t clarify that in our contracts.”

“Mmmhm.”

A few more minutes pass in near comfortable silence while neither move. Clint, well aware of the cool metal of Bucky’s hand resting against his lower back, fights to restrain the urge to shiver. 

This was what he wanted yesterday. 

It was easy to sit in silence with Bucky. Easier yet, to let himself be held. 

He was such a sucker. 

“You were really rude in your text to me,” he says suddenly, the words spilling from his mouth so quickly he winces. 

The hand on his back stills. 

“I know. Yesterday sucked. I’m sorry.” 

“Well, next time maybe don’t just say ‘can’t, gotta work some shit out’ then completely ghost me, okay?” Clint suggests, voice muffled as he feels Bucky shift under him. 

“Ghost?” he hears Buck ask carefully. 

“Ya, when someone doesn’t reply all of a sudden, add it to your urban dictionary list.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then the silence grows awkward, which is a first for both of them. Clint hates it instantly.

“Clint, I -” Bucky starts and he can’t handle whatever comes next. Wiggling off Bucky’s lap, he doesn’t miss the way Bucky’s eyes track down his body as he remains seated on the couch before looking away, cheeks going red as he pushes a hand through his hair. 

“I gotta go get dressed for training,” he says in a rush, already walking towards the door. “I’ll see you on the perch, okay?”

“Actually, I -”

In his years of being an assassin turned spy turned Avenger, there is one thing Clint knows 100%, which is that time is of the essence when it comes to making a great escape, so he’s opening the door as he says over his shoulder, “see you in a few, Buck,” leaving Bucky with an unfinished sentence and a full pot of coffee. 

***

“Wait, why’s he here?” Tony asks with a frown as he shoves his com in, nodding his head towards where Bucky is standing, taking in the different view of his surroundings. 

He’s already itchy about not being up high, and he can’t help but let his eyes flicker up to the perch. Is it bad that he misses it? That he felt like he’s cheating just by going up there and grabbing his shit before scuttling down to the main floor like an absolute coward?

“You hired me a year ago, Tony, what? You already forgot?” Bucky shot back, strapping the last of his ammo onto his belt. 

“Ha. Ha. Funny, Barnes. I was just wondering why you aren’t up there with -”

“He’s here because I said so,” Steve replies, ignoring Tony’s utterance of _well someone’s touchy today,_ as he barrels on, “all coms should be online. Thirty seconds until simulation begins. Are we missing -”

“Hey!” Clint’s voice crackled into the coms. “Sorry I’m late, coffee run, has anyone by chance seen my partner in crime? The Aragon to my Legolas? Short guy, looks kinda murder-y sometimes but would probably save your kitten from a tree? He’s not in position.”

“He’s in position, Clint,” Steve responds, raising his brows at Bucky as if to say ‘you gonna take care of this or am I?’

“What? No he’s not. I’m here now and I’m telling ya there’s no Bucky to be foun-”

“Don’t worry about it, Clint.”

“I kinda have to worry about it, as he’s not here, Captain,” Clint shoots back petulantly. 

“Clint - he’s -”

“I’m doing the simulation on the ground, Clint,” Bucky says, instantly knowing how bad it sounds. They hadn’t done a simulation-mission with the two of them apart in close to 8 months. It feels wrong. 

The beeping from above sounds three times before the countdown begins, and all he can hear is JARVIS’ crisp tone as it starts at 5 and counts back, he has exactly 4 seconds and one syllable from Clint to prepare himself for whatever comes next. 

“Oh.”

That single word breaks him as it holds too much disappointment and understanding within it. 

“Clint -”

“ _Simulation beginning_ ” 

Within seconds the scene is set and streets are flooding with the same blue-green aliens as the day before and Bucky’s brain is once again split, but instead of being distracted by the freckles of Clint’s shoulders, he’s distracted by the pain he knows he’s caused. 

There was no avoiding it, he realizes as he runs, ducks, and fires the nine millimeters and their fake bullets, dropping empty cartridges as he goes. He’s climbing over debris and hitting all of his shots, but his eyes glance up whenever they get a chance. Watching the wall and the arrows arching off it. Hitting all their targets. 

The coms stay uncharacteristically quiet as they work through the simulation. Clint is their levity. The one who makes quippy comments that reminds them all to breathe during moments like these. His silence is deafening. 

When the aliens begin their climb up the wall, Bucky takes them down with new-found anger. Rows of them get dusted from behind, as Clint works on the ones making headway up the brick. An arrow slams into the “flipped over car” Bucky is using as shelter, and he thinks he hears the sound of an empty laugh behind it. 

When it’s all said and done and their hour is up, Bucky is instantly dropping his gear and heading toward the elevator. He knows Clint isn’t in the perch anymore, he heard the elevator open as soon as the lights flashed. 

“Okay, what’d I miss?” Tony asks, his voice echoing within the space and the com, which Bucky promptly rips from his ear as he boards.

It takes approximately 36 seconds for the elevator to stop on Clint’s floor, and Bucky despises his hand for shaking as it knocks.

He can hear Clint sitting on his couch. Because he has exceptional hearing. It’s how he knows when Clint is waking up; most of the time it’s the change in his breathing, but if he’s really quiet, then it’s the change in his heart rate. It’s absurd. He hated the ability when he was the Asset, because he could hear everything (imagine knowing the exact sound a knife made when it hit bone... yeah... exactly). He almost hates it even more now, because he can hear the exact moment Clint rises, the few steps he takes to the door, when he stops and turns. His hand is ruffling through his hair before he sighs, and there’s a thunk on the floor before he’s turning back around, heading Bucky’s way, before he stops again and, Bucky can only assume, stares at the door. 

The moments of Clint’s hesitation twist themselves into Bucky’s gut, and it’s all he can do to not break the damn door off its hinges. 

It doesn’t come to that, when suddenly the door opens and Clint is staring back at him. 

The thump must have been the simulation’s quiver and bow, as they’ve been dumped in the middle of the room, and he’s staring at Bucky with a carefully blank expression that Bucky’s never seen before. 

“What?” he asks, and it’s then that Bucky sees how Clint Barton would make a deadly assassin. Nothing shows within his level voice, his only tell is the pounding of his heartbeat against his ribs. “Tell Steve I’ll be there in 30 minutes and he can ream me then, as I have to, what was it you said?” Clint considers, watching Bucky carefully, “oh yeah, I gotta work some shit out.” 

Before he can slam the door in Bucky’s face Bucky’s catching it, and he’s pretty sure there’s going to be an indention of his left hand within the wood as he pushes inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet _click_. 

“So what is it about me that makes me so hard to work with, huh?” Clint asks, turning suddenly while biting at his bottom lip. “Because whatever it is has to be new, I know you, and you’re not one to put up with shit for close to a year now. So what is it? Finally figured out I like talking? Or is it the fact that I’m a depressive disaster of a human who knocked on your door at 5 a.m. because I don’t know how to exist some days without human contact tethering me to the earth? Or is it just how -”

“It’s your arms,” Bucky interjects, before Clint can go any further.

“I - wait… what?” The frown is gone and Clint is left staring back at him, his previously carefully empty gaze now filled with confusion. 

It’s a good look on him, if Bucky was allowed to have that opinion. Which he wasn’t sure that he was. 

“It’s not just your arms,” Bucky adds quickly, because the cat’s out of the bag and he might as well get it all out before he turns tail and flings himself down the elevator shaft to save face, “it’s also the way you have these freckles on your shoulders, and it makes me hate the fact that you go on missions where it’s sunny and I’m not there with you,” Bucky winces because it sounds so stupid out loud, but there’s no stopping it all now, “it’s when you lay your head on someone’s lap and you get this look on your face, this moment of pure bliss and I -” he swallows and begins to pace “- I just I want - and then you - you do stupid shit like run into doors, or fall into dumpsters -”

“That was one time,” Clint grumbles before shutting his mouth at the look Bucky shoots him. 

“It’s the way you sneak through vents, and you don’t even hesitate to touch this monstrosity,” Bucky says, flinging up his metal arm in exasperation, “and you just touch me. I-in the 40’s you didn’t just touch people, especially other men, and - and then I was The Asset for so long, and I know it may come as a surprise to everyone, but there are no hugs in HYDRA, and then you go and fucking nap, like everywhere, I mean who can even fall asleep on a conference table, Clint, but there you are,” he can feel himself rambling, and Bucky can’t remember the last time he said so many words. Definitely not any time in the last decade. “And Clint, I swear on my Mother's grave -”

“You shouldn’t do that,” Clint says carefully, and when Bucky frowns at him he shrugs. “She just sounds like a nice lady, is all.”

“Would you shut up for like two seconds so I can finish?”

Clint mimes zipping his lips, but there’s a small dusting of pink creeping up his neck and a smirk of a smile he’s trying hard to hide, and it gives Bucky the fuel to continue.

“I swear, Clint, the reason I asked Steve to ground me wasn’t because I didn’t want to be with you, it’s because...” He sighs, and this time he has to look out the window, due to the fact that he’s a chicken shit who can’t take rejection, but who also can’t keep holding on to so much all at once. “It’s because that’s all I ever want to do... is be with you.”

“Oh.”

“I, uh -” turning, Bucky starts his walk to the door, because honestly he _really_ _can not do_ rejection in the 21st century, “- I know that was a lot so I’m gonna go, I just needed you to know that it wasn’t your fault.”

As soon as he goes to walk past Clint there’s a hand wrapping around his left wrist, stilling his movement and shielding his exit. They’re shoulder to shoulder now, and Bucky wants to just lean his head there, for one second, before he has to leave. 

“One last question.”

Closing his eyes, Bucky takes a slow breath before turning to face him. 

“Why are you always in the room that I’m sleeping in?” Clint asks, and there’s a small frown between his brows, a careful consideration.

“Because you don’t leave a man in a vulnerable position alone,” Bucky replies. 

“Then don’t leave now.” 

There’s a heavy beat of ringing silence between them, then all at once they’re moving together. A dance like but unlike any they’d practiced so many times before. Bucky is pushing forward, nudging Clint back into the wall before leveraging himself up onto the balls of his feet while Clint’s hands find their way to Bucky's face, scratching over the day of growth and pulling him in as he arches down to meet him. 

The moment their lips brush, they both shudder out a breath. Their sighs full of months of longing and impatient need. Clint’s kiss feels like a million sunrises, slow and warm with a touch of undeniable promise that it’s definitely going to happen again. 

Bucky’s hands can officially roam without reserve and he forces himself to be gentle as they move from the sweet curve of Clint’s hips to trace under his shirt. There’s a catch in Clint’s breath the moment the cool metal traces up his side, and Bucky’s about to pull it away, already working it out from under Clint’s shirt, when Clint’s hand is suddenly catching his elbow, halting its regression. 

“Don’t you dare,” He says, his voice is a rough whisper as he presses his forehead to Bucky’s. 

“I - I didn’t know if you’d want -” and with every word he’s leaning back in, because he can’t get enough of the way Clint tastes, the way he feels pressing against him. 

“I do,” Clint assures him, pressing his hips to Bucky’s even though the height difference makes it just a tad more difficult. The evidence is there, captured behind the confines of his zipper, but making itself known against Bucky’s hip, “I want.”

Bucky’s response is a groan and a roll of his hips as he moves away from Clint’s mouth to nip along his jaw. 

“God,” Bucky sighs into his skin, of course Clint tastes like sunshine manifested. His hands can’t stop moving with their new-found permission, tracing up lines of abs and feeling the raised scars, touching all the places he’s been wanting for so long.

“You can call me Clint,” Clint huffs with a little laughter quickly cut off by a pitchy whine when Bucky’s left thumb rubs over his nipple at the same time he aims a carefully placed bite to Clint’s neck. “Jesus, fuck. Bucky, please-“ 

***

Clint is a dying man. A dying man who was going to meet his demise against his own living room wall, which he’s absolutely fine with, as long as it’s death by Bucky. They could put that on his tombstone, and he’d laugh and laugh. And he can’t really think about that now because Bucky’s biting his neck and - and doing something wonderful to his nipple as their hips grind together, and Clint’s whimpering in response, all 6 feet and 4 inches of him want to melt. 

“Knew you’d sound beautiful when you begged,” Bucky says, a hint of laughter in his growl as he pulls back to yank Clint's shirt up and over his head. 

Clint completely tumbles off the ledge of the mountain named James Buchanan Barnes when Bucky takes the time to tuck his hearing aids back behind his ears after dislodging them thanks to the collar of his shirt. 

The weight of Bucky’s stare is monumentous, and he can see the stormy blue-gray eyes taking in every inch of him, a frown between his brows as if he’s trying to figure out just where to start his feast. The thought makes his neck go warm. Bucky doesn’t miss it either; instantly his eyes snap up to follow the color, then to meet Clint’s own. 

“I want to leave marks,” he says, and he’s so serious, so beautifully goddamn serious as he presses their bodies back together, nose nudging over Clint’s pulse before the flat of his tongue laps at it. “Right here.” He punctuates it with a nip of teeth, as if X marks the spot. “Can I?”

The fact that he’s expected to respond when his whole body is on fire is completely unfair, he thinks he says please, as Bucky is moving, and his teeth are lethal as they clamp onto his skin, sucking to rush the blood to the surface, vibrant pain mixed with perfect pleasure, and Clint’s hands find themselves gripping into the short strands of hair on the back of Bucky’s head, encouraging him to never leave that spot. 

He’s getting marked, claimed by Bucky Barnes, and something in his billion year old lizard brain preens at the idea. 

*** 

Bucky pulls back to check out his handiwork; it’s been a while since he’d left a hickey on anyone, possibly a few decades, but the sight of Clint Barton staring back at him like a horny drunken mess with Bucky’s mark blooming on the side of his neck is enough to make him want to take Clint here and now.

“You look real proud of yourself,” Clint says, all cocky smiles and flushed cheeks.

“Cause I am,” Bucky counters, “I’m also trying to figure out if I’m going to have to fuck you against the wall,” he adds, reaching down to release the button of Clint’s pants he takes the zipper down too, “or if we can make it to the bed, as I’m assuming that’s where you keep certain items we may need?” he asks, letting his hand slip into the opening to palm at Clint’s covered cock. It’s warm and hard and makes promises to fit down his throat perfectly. 

“Jesus mother fucking Christ...” Clint gasps.

“You can call me Bucky, but before we get to that, what’ll it be? Wall or bed, your choice,” he says, rubbing the flat of his palm lightly over Clint before brushing the pad of his thumb over the crease created by the swollen head of his cock. 

“I - I don’t - I cant -” he stutters, his bottom lip getting caught between his teeth as the back of his head meets the wall in frustration. 

“Want some help?” Bucky asks, enjoying himself too much - Clint Barton falling apart is such a beautiful thing. When he nods, Bucky smiles, pushing in close to finally rest his head on that freckled shoulder, his hand never ceasing in its tease.

“I say bed, because I gotta be honest with you,” he adds, inching his thumb over the waistband of Clint’s boxer-briefs to slip inside and barely graze the pad across the slick bead of precum already forming there, “I want to take my time with you, and if I get you naked and pressed up against a wall, begging and flushed, here and now, I don’t foresee either of us lasting long, do you?” he asks, smearing the slick all over his thumb before bringing it up to his mouth for a taste.

Clint’s eyes track the movement and his mouth drops open, “not if you keep doing shit like that I won’t.”

Bucky gives him a devilish grin. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

**

“B-bed,” Clint manages to blurt out before he’s being pulled down the hall by a very determined and still very clothed Bucky. 

“Okay, but can we not judge my room?” he asks as Bucky pushes open his door and presses his lips together in restrained laughter. 

Turning, his eyes are bright with it and his cheeks are flushed, and Clint can't get enough of him. 

“You have about 50 arrows in your walls,” he states. 

“I get bored sometimes,” Clint explained. 

“And in your ceiling.” Bucky grins, eyeing all the shafts well-embedded into makeshift targets painted everywhere. 

“Just shut up, and don’t tell Stark,” Clint adds, lacing his fingers with Bucky’s.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When Bucky turns, the smile is still there, and his thumb grazes over the back of Clint’s knuckles, and it’s like being stuck in a crystal, because from the moment he walked in, Bucky has shown him one hundred different facets and Clint is trying to grasp at just one while wanting to collect them all. 

“Hi,” he breathes, pushing back into Clint’s space, trailing the fingers of his left hand down the curve of Clint’s naked shoulder, “have I told you how obsessed I am with your arms?” he asks, following his fingers that trace a vein with a trail kisses, too careful and tender for Clint to handle. 

“You, uhhh-” Bucky’s licking the inside of his elbow before nipping the tender skin and kissing it as he sinks to his knees, “you might have mentioned.”

“Well, put it on the record,” Bucky adds as his knees hit the floor, and he stops to press a kiss to Clint’s calloused palm, “that I’m slightly obsessed.”

What is even breathing?! Does he really need to do it? Because he doesn’t remember how when Bucky moves on from his hand and presses his lips directly under his navel, following the blonde line of hair before it disappears. Sitting back on his heals he makes quick work of taking off Clint’s boots, then hooking his finger through the belt loops of his pants and giving them a tug.

Clint steps out of them carefully, as falling over at this point was definitely a possibility but _not_ an option. 

He expects Bucky to lean forward again, but he doesn’t, his eyes, nearly as dark as the black shirt he’s wearing, just rake over Clint’s newly revealed skin and it drives Clint nuts to feel so exposed. 

“Okay, confession,” Bucky says, looking up to meet Clint’s eyes, and his palms start at the back of Clint’s ankles, then proceed to trace over the back of his legs until they come to grip his thighs, “I might be obsessed with all of you,” he adds, letting his hands push up to hook over the band of the ridiculously purple boxer-briefs, edging them down at a painstakingly slow pace 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Clint groans when Bucky’s lips brush over his adonis belt to suck a new mark into the tender skin above his hip bone. 

“And why is that?” Bucky asks, pausing in his administration to wait for the answer, well aware that there’s a well manscaped patch of blonde hair starting to peek through Clint’s slowly descending boxers, and he’s practically drooling.

Clint’s grin is a little lopsided and Bucky nuzzles into his hip just to watch it grow.

“I want you. Have wanted you,” he amends, quickly brushing long fingers over Bucky’s jaw, “for a really long time.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, the portrait of innocence, as if he wasn’t shucking off Clint’s boxers and eyeing his now free, very hard dick like it was a popsicle on a hot July day. 

“Y-y-yeah.” It’s a shuttered breath of a moan that he releases, and the weight of the months of torturing himself over falling for Bucky Barnes finally fully lift off his shoulders as Bucky’s lips wrap around him, and he’s sliding down. 

***

If there was ever a cock Bucky would dream about at night, it’d be this one, he thinks to himself, fully not giving a flying fuck about the deep groan that tumbles through him as the head of it nudges into his throat as he buries his nose into the neatly trimmed hair at the base. 

Clint’s gone tense above him, and when he finally takes a breath through his nose to move back up his shaft, licking as he goes, he looks up to watch the muscles along his abdomen and chest contract and release. With every suck there’s a new sound, and all Bucky wants to do is have him make them over and over. 

All too soon there’s fingers sliding through his hair, and Clint is begging him to stop, because if he doesn’t, this’ll all end embarrassingly fast.

Popping off, Bucky stands, pressing his body to Clint’s, causing Clint to shudder when the sensitive head of his cock rubs over the edge of Bucky’s pants. 

“Can I, um,” Clint thumbs at the hem of Bucky's shirt, because he knows about boundaries, and not wanting to cross them, “do you want this to stay on?” 

“Oh.” Bucky looks startled, blinking down at the shirt once before looking up at Clint, “I, there’s a lot of scarring, but I -”

“I know, we do frequent the same gym, pool, locker room, and quinjet, honey,” Clint says with ease. 

And there’s Bucky’s blush, flooding his cheeks with the simple pet name, and he can’t help but duck his head. 

“Bucky,” Clint’s voice is soft as he pushes his hand under the shirt to rest on the skin of Bucky’s side, “I’m down with whatever,” He adds, kissing Bucky’s forehead. “Like, really, really ridiculously down, and there isn’t a part of you that I don’t want to see, to kiss, or touch… unless you have like… three balls or something, then we may need to put a pin in things and go talk to -”

The snort of a laugh is loud and probably not sexy at all but Bucky can’t help it. “I can promise I only have two balls,” he says, laughing as he pulls his shirt up and over his head before letting it fall to the floor. 

And sure there are scars, scars on top of scars, that Clint had seen a million times, but never up close. He can’t ignore him, not when there’s a flare of rage at the smallest imaginative thought of what Bucky must have been through to get them. So he ducks down instead to press a trail of kisses from under Bucky’s ear, across the shiny lines, over puffy pink skin, before meeting metal. And he doesn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. 

“I’ll rip them apart for you, if any of them are still alive. Just give me names,” he whispers angrily against Bucky’s skin.

“Already done,” Bucky says, pulling back to stare at Clint carefully, and maybe that’s when Bucky falls for him, maybe professing the want to maim and torture those who maimed and tortured you is what it takes to break his heart completely open and willing, “don’t let it get to you, okay?” he asks, leaning forward to press a kiss he hopes will distract him from the topic at hand to his lips. 

“Maybe you should take your pants off while you’re at it,” Clint murmurs, “ ‘cause I’m really mad, and while I think I could die on your pecs, and would like to lick ice cream off your abs, I think your thighs will definitely do the trick to distract me.” 

And there’s his smile again, dopey and reassuring, but Bucky can’t unsee the anger in Clint’s eyes, the rare slide into rage that he knows is so easy to get lost in. And maybe this is dating, although they were missing a few steps. He’d make them up to Clint. Buy him flowers, a pony, whatever the guy wanted, if it meant seeing him smile and taking a bit of the anger away. But they would have to live through the dark too. 

“You gotta thing for my thighs, Barton?” Bucky asks, toying with the button of his jeans as he works (none too gracefully) to get his boots off his feet. 

“Pretty much from day one.” 

“Really?” Bucky asks, because wow. 

“Uh huh,” Clint adds, gazing hungirly at Bucky’s fingers as they work the zipper down. He uses the time to make his way onto the bed, and Bucky fights back a laugh when Clint winces and rubs at his ass before pulling an arrow out from under the sheets, tossing it to the side.

“There gonna be any more surprise weaponry in there?” Bucky asks, shucking off his pants before leaning his shins against the side of the mattress. 

“Are you asking me honestly, or are you setting me up for a joke about your dick?” Clint wonders aloud, sitting up on his elbows as Bucky rolls his eyes. “Fine fine, you should be safe, now lose the boxers, Barnes.”

Bucky’s brows tick up briefly in amusement before he rolls his eyes at Clint’s steadfast gaze. 

“Why do I feel like you only want me for my dick?”

“Because at this very moment you hopefully understand that I may die if I don’t get it in me soon?” Clint says, sitting up and taking matters into his own literal hands. 

It wasn’t his fault Bucky was built like a brick shithouse of compact muscle and perfect fucking thighs. The black boxer-briefs contrast beautifully against the pale ivory of Bucky’s skin, and it’s a pity that all Clint wants to do is rip them away. Instead, he chooses to remain slightly sane, as he folds his legs under him to sit up on his knees. He eases forward to kiss Bucky, to nip at his lip, then soothe it with his tongue even as his arms come up to wrap loosely around Bucky’s neck. 

It’s surprisingly intimate, the way Bucky’s fingers coast up his sides, before one presses him even closer and the other trails down his spine. Circling the dimples at its base just once, then grabbing a solid handful of his ass to draw him in flush against him. 

Every thought of going slow gets pushed to the back burner as suddenly they are a mess of hands when Clint and Bucky both reach for the hem of Bucky’s boxers. Clint gets there first and grins into the kiss at his win, then he’s shoving them down Bucky’s thighs and Bucky’s kicking them away, all the while losing his breath as Clint’s warm calloused hand grips over his length.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky grunts, pushing their foreheads together as he squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden very physical onslaught of pleasure. 

“Clint, I -” he groans, hips tilting marginally into the grasp for a solid three seconds before he’s gripping Clint’s wrist carefully with his left hand, stilling the movements. “I thought we were trying to stay away from cumming embarrassingly fast?” 

“Spoil sport.” Clint grins, kissing him again. 

“Lube? Condoms?” Bucky asks against his mouth. 

“Bedside drawer,” Clint answers, not before drawing back with a devious look in his eyes that has Bucky stopping.

“What?”

“Well….” Clint drawls, leaning back on his heels, he takes his time splaying his fingers over Bucky’s thighs as he stands in front of him, still on the edge of the bed.

“Clint…” Bucky’s voice is a low growl as he captures both of Clint’s wandering hands before they could reach for his cock again. “Out with it,” he demands, and Christ on a cracker that’s hot, and Clint is definitely going to say it, he is, because Bucky’s frowning at him a bit frustrated and a little confused, and his mind briefly asks him if he thinks Bucky would be the type to press him down while he was on his knees or if he was more of a face-to-face kinda - “Clint!”

Snapping to attention, words rush from Clint’s mouth, “I heard a rumor that you and Steve can’t, uh, catch anything like… ya know… anything… and I’m clean, like squeaky clean, and I can have JARVIS pull the records if you want, because I really think it’s worth it to consider the idea that -”

“Get to the point, Clint.”

“Please, dear God, fuck me without a condom.”

He nearly thinks he’s ruined it all because there’s a distinct lack of Bucky talking, or even breathing as his eyes dart back and forth, searching Clint’s. And then he’s climbing on the bed, and they’re both on their knees, and Bucky’s suddenly reaching up to grip at the back of Clint’s neck, cupping the back of his head, bringing their mouths crashing together in a furious kiss that has Clint whimpering against him, hands helpless but to come up and rest on Bucky’s chest. Mapping the beating of his heart against his palm.

Then he’s nipping and biting over Clint’s jaw and his fingers are gently tugging at Clint’s hair, forcing his head to the side, revealing more skin for his mouth to devour. 

And it could have been seconds or years before Bucky nips at Clint’s ear lobe and asks, “is that what you want, sweetheart,” and Clint can barely remember his own name, but he nods, because he’s so much yes, although he doesn’t quite remember what he's nodding to, “you want me to fill you with my cum?” 

Oh, dear God. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moaned it out loud until Bucky’s laugh is dark and warm against the shell of his ear. 

“Is that a yes?” Bucky asks, giving a little tug to Clint’s hair for good measure. 

“Please.” Clint asks, eyes closing on their own accord as he licks as his bottom lip. “Please.”

Bucky can’t resist, not when Clint’s turning into warm putty in his hands while Bucky lowers him onto the bed. 

“Please what?” he asks, nudging Clint’s legs apart so that he’s framed by them, and those sky-blue eyes watch him as he reaches over to grab the little bottle from the bedside drawer. “C’mon, baby, wanna hear you say it. Tell me what you want.”

Everything inside of him burns with embarrassment and his toes curl into the sheets as he tries to bring his legs up to wrap around Bucky’s body, trying to regain some small inch of control, only to have them pushed back down while Bucky gives him an expectant look.

“You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” Clint asks, and finds Bucky's ridiculous smirk and responding shrug charming as hell.

“You like it,” Bucky adds, trailing a finger from Clint’s balls up the underside of his dick that laid hard and wanting across his belly, before dipping it once again into the precum gathering and bringing it up to his mouth for a taste. “And may I just add,” Bucky says, groaning a little at the bitter taste as it burst on his tongue, “that you taste fucking delicious.”

And that’s it, the blush was here to stay, and Clint’s whole body catches on fire as Bucky’s now barely-damp finger presses against his hole, gently circling as Clint is finally allowed to bend his knees. He tilts his hips to give Bucky as much access as possible. 

“Dammit, Bucky,” Clint whines when the finger just continues in its small careful circles. 

“Oh, c’mon, baby doll,” Bucky drawls, putting on his best Brooklyn accent, “don’t be like that, huh?” And this time he taps his finger against the furled hole, as if Clint could even possibly forget he’s there. “Just tell me how you want it and I’ll do it. Easy as pie.”

Although Clint’s eyes are shut he can hear the smirk in Bucky’s voice, and he kinda hates him, in a very caring way. 

“Please, fuck me -” Clint starts, then swallows in order to gather all of his courage before opening his eyes and meeting Bucky’s “- and then cum in me, please?” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Bucky says, and Clint hears the _snick_ of the lube cap opening before losing his breath to the finger that slowly enters him, and then there’s Bucky, pumping his finger in and out without meeting much resistance, but leaning over him and kissing him gently all the same, nuzzling his neck as if they had all the time in the world. 

The second finger yields a little more resistance and Bucky’s slow and careful in his movements. He moves away from Clint’s mouth, who pouts at the loss, before his lips are falling open as his left nipple is captured between Bucky’s metal thumb and forefinger and his right is licked carefully before cool streams of air hit it off and on. 

Before he can really question his reality, Clint’s arching off the bed and begging for more, and his world explodes when Bucky adds a third, and changes his tactics from careful licks to needy sucks and bites, his fingers tugging as his teeth nibble. When the fingers within him crook up a notch and pass fully over his prostate, stars explode behind his eyes and it takes him a few seconds to realize the loud moan he hears behind the scrape of fabric against the mics of his hearing aids, is his own. 

He forces himself to open his eyes, and Bucky’s there, releasing his nipple to plant a hand near his head as he leans forward to brush soft words and sweet kisses over his mouth, as he whimpers and begs.

“Please, baby, please,” he mumbles against Bucky’s lips, and he can feel Bucky smile and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, this very moment is everything, “need you in me.”

“Okay,” Bucky is there right beside him and his hole is suddenly very empty, fluttering, trying to tighten around nothing as Bucky presses one more kiss to Clint’s lips as he arches up for more contact. There’s a wet cool spot of precum gathered on his belly and he doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed by it. “Turn over for me, sweetheart, let me see how ready you are.”

He does have just enough energy to be embarrassed by that, as he complies, slightly losing his coordination with his rush to turn over, and he breathes out a heavy sigh. Then there’s Bucky’s hands gently guiding him up to his knees, pressing kisses over his spine, and whispering words Clint can’t understand because his fucking ears suck, but he swears he’s going to teach Bucky whatever words he’s saying in sign language because he wants to hear them so badly. 

“I know, baby,” comes Bucky’s voice right next to his ear and he realizes he said it all out loud, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care, he just keeps touching him, kissing over his neck and shoulders, repeating the words over and over, and when Clint finally hears them, there’s a swell of emotion in his belly that has nothing to do with the fact that Bucky’s slowly pushing into him and he’s fighting for a normal breath. 

“Everything about you is beautiful, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough,” he’s saying, and his voice is tight from the strain of pushing into the warm wet heat of Clint’s body at an agonizingly slow pace. Clint doesn’t realize he’s moved up, ensuring he can hear every word of it by gripping the metal iron bar of his headboard until Bucky’s trailing his left hand from Clint’s hip to his chest, forcing him up until Clint’s leaning his head back on Bucky’s shoulder and he can feel Bucky’s heart beat against his back. 

Every thrust is achingly slow and languid, and Bucky can’t stop himself from saying all the words he’s been holding in for so long as Clint’s ragged moans fill in the spaces. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he says again, pressing kisses to the freckles decorating his shoulder, “everything about you is so beautiful and perfect, honey,” and he can feel it build inside of him, he can feel the warmth pool at the base of his spine, and he pushes into Clint harder, who scrabbles to hold on to the arm pressing against his chest, as Bucky’s right hand finally wraps around the base of Clint’s cock, pumping in time with his thrusts.

“Oh, Bucky, I’m,” Clint whimpers, biting his lip as his release nears, “don’t let go, please, don’t let go,” he begs, and he doesn’t know if he means literally or figuratively, but regardless, Bucky’s words of assurance are right in his ear.

“C’mon, baby, cum for me, I’m not letting go of you,” he says between thrusts, “ ‘m never letting go of you,” and he feels it, feels Clint’s entire body clench as he gasps Bucky’s name and spills into his hand, and as Bucky’s own release washes over him he buries his face in Clint’s neck muffling his shout of pleasure that only consists of Clint’s name. 

***

Eventually they roll out of bed, getting dressed and complaining of hunger. There’s comments from Clint, lots of them, about Bucky’s “magically healing super soldier dick” and Bucky can’t stop laughing as they work their way downstairs.

“I’m just saying. How many times have you like… ya know,” Clint gives a medieval gesture near his groin and Bucky groans, “in a night.”

“I don’t know… like, maybe five?”

“FIVE TIMES!” Clint’s eyes go wide as saucers as they push through a door leading into one of the Tower’s common areas, where their best chance of finding food happens to be.

“I don’t know, I’m not trying to set a record or anything.” Bucky grins, and Clint is launching himself into Bucky’s arms and backing him against the fridge.

“We’re so going to set a record.” Clint laughs, pressing their lips together

It’s in the middle of the kiss that they hear a throat clear behind them, and the distinct sound of a fork hitting glass. When they turn, Steve, Natasha, Bruce and Tony all stare back at them from their places around a glass dining room table.

Steve’s as bright as a tomato, and Bucky can blatantly hear Natasha whisper “I told you so” into Bruce’s ear. 

After a solid 10 seconds of thrumming silence, Tony groans, “Ohhhhhhh, _THAT’S_ what I missed. Nice hickey, Barton.”

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii! It's been so long, and for that I am sorry. 
> 
> I promise I have two multi-chapter works that I'm in the middle of that I'll be posting once they are completed... plus, there's a damn pandemic and America is officially the Florida of the world. 
> 
> So here's two idiots in love as an apology, or a get well soon, or as a shameless plea of "I love you please don't unsubscribe from me' for my lack of posting.
> 
> Stay well friends <3 
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://love-ha-fge.tumblr.com/) !
> 
> ps : comments really do give me the drive to write, so if you’d like to leave one, I’d probably cry or something embarrassing


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